


The Meetings of the Waters

by ithilielthechosenone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sweater Weather- Lumosinlove
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hockey, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It's only implied in like two sentences but stay safe everyone, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithilielthechosenone/pseuds/ithilielthechosenone
Summary: The future is as bright as the Florida sun.A few snapshots, following the line of Remus's life so far.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	The Meetings of the Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sweater Weather](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20750912) by [lumosinlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosinlove/pseuds/lumosinlove). 



> This wonderful universe belongs to @lumosinlove, as do coops and the Gryffindor Lions. The idea of Remus's family celebrating the German Nikolaustag and the thought of the Lupins filling Remus's skates instead of shoes came from a discussion on the sw/c2c discord server. Thank all of you so much, you are a blessing and I'm so grateful for all of you! The title is taken from a song by Fionn Regan called The Meetings of the Waters'. Beware of inaccuracies in both timeline and hockey knowledge but I hope you can enjoy nevertheless!

I.

The ice feels solid beneath his feet. It is different from what he is used to but it doesn't bother him. It's been two months since he last fell down on the ice and he doesn't have to think about shifting his weight any longer, it has become as natural as walking, more so perhaps. He likes this better than walking after all. He narrows his eyes, raises his stick and shoots the puck straight at the middle one of three tin cans they have put up as targets, smiling at the sound of it colliding with the metal. The can lands somewhere in the bushes behind the lake and he looks up to see his mother clapping and his father whistling proudly. _This is what I can do,_ he thinks, feels it with the cold wind on his face, warm from exertion. _Watch me._

* * *

II.

His mother ruffles his hair before kissing him goodnight as she always does. “I love you, sleep well.” It occurs to him that he should be more embarrassed about this little ritual they have but he can't bring himself to. Maybe next year when he'll be fourteen and definitely too old for kisses and bed time stories he'll ask her to stop. (He knows he won't.) “You don't have to put stuff in my shoes anymore, mom. I've known that Saint Nicholas doesn't exist for years.” She raises an eyebrow.

Their neighbor, Miss Murray, had been married to a German and introduced her to the tradition of Saint Nicholas' day when Remus was born. As long as he can remember, his father and him had always cleaned their skates on the evening of December 5th and put them on the doormat to wait for Saint Nicholas. His mother had always said he liked that the skates added a bit of variety to his job. As long as he can remember he has woken up on the next morning to find them filled with sweets and chocolate. He knows his mother loves the tradition but he is almost grown up now and she has been in between jobs for the last few months.

“I don't think he quite agrees with you. We'll see what happens. Maybe he's sulking now and won't get you anything,” his mom says but she is smiling slightly and he knows there is no convincing her.

“I just thought-,” he starts, then thinks better of it. He doesn't want to embarrass her.

“Go on, love,” her eyes have narrowed slightly, a sign that she is getting worried. “Did someone say something to you, make fun of it?” He fumbles with the hem of his night shirt, shakes his head and then tilts it to the side a little. “I just meant- if money's a little... tight, you know? You don't have to get me anything anymore, I wouldn't be disappointed or anything. I know I wanted a new stick for Christmas but it's not really _that_ urgent. I can just keep the borrowed one for a bit longer and it'll be fine. I already got new skates for my birthday after all.”

His mom hugs him to her chest and kisses the top of his head before pulling back to look at him. “Don't you worry about all that, Re. We'd tell you if something like that were necessary. I know you're not stupid, you know very well I don't have a job at the moment but we've always found a way to make it work, the three of us, haven't we?”

Later, Remus stares into the darkness at the space where there is usually his framed picture of the Lions' current roster visible in the light. The faint sting of guilt still churns in his stomach. _One day,_ he thinks, _I'll give them back for all they have sacrificed for me._ He knows they would rush to reassure him immediately if he ever were to voice the thought. In his dreams, his mother wipes away tears of happiness as he leads her to a garden with plants so green and wide it hurts his eyes. “We can grow our own potatoes here!” his father says behind them and he knows that they love him, they love him so much, they always have and always will. There is a shadow there, somewhere behind the bushes but he has forgotten all about it when he wakes up.

He finds his favorite kind of chocolate and a picture of all three of them at Remus's last game in his right skate.

* * *

III.

The exchange student in his biology class tells him he is going to play with their team for the months he is here. His hair is dark and a bit curly and there is a roundness to his vowels that Remus is strangely curious about. He doesn't think he can pronounce his name quite correctly, no matter how hard he tries and he can't keep the embarrassed flush from his cheeks whenever he does. _Mateo._

He looks slightly like one of Remus's favorite hockey prodigies even though his play in itself seems a bit sloppy. To him hockey is enjoyment next to the tedious school day. To Remus it's something as vital as breathing. Even so, he thinks he will miss him once he is gone again. They rarely talk outside of class but sometimes their eyes meet in the locker room, caught in the sleeve of a shirt, looking up from lacing their skates and Remus thinks _This._ He isn't sure what he means by that yet. Or rather: He isn't sure he wants to know what he means by that.

Remus has always been good in biology so it is only natural that he wants to uphold that reputation. He doesn't want the teacher to think he is becoming lazy so of course he puts even more work into the class than before. They have to sit next to each other for a group project and Remus moves his chair just a bit closer so that they may understand each other better. It's a favor really, bridging the barely present language barrier and all.

“If you don't become a world famous scientist and choose hockey after all, make sure to send me an autograph and a jersey, yes?” A strange goodbye at an airport and a small piece of paper pressed into his hands. “It'd be wonderful to hear from you again. I'll miss you. Ciao.”

The pieces at last, connected. The shadow grows and it is no longer behind the bushes but in him and around him, there is the pattern, the riddle, the mystery for the ages that should have remained unsolved. The violent shove of a single word in his mind, _no._

“I hope you get home safely,” he says and smiles. No one has noticed the flood arriving, the dam breaking. _You know,_ it says, _you knew._ And Remus argues, _no._

After, at home, he cries a little. No one can see him so it doesn't really count. He opens YouTube to distract himself from the fact that tomorrow the stall next to his would be empty as it always had been before Mateo's arrival. He stares at Sirius Black on a breakaway and convinces himself the sharp tug on his insides is nothing but envy. When he goes to bed he looks at the newspaper article pinned to his wall, his own smiling face staring back at him and he wonders if this is truly what he looks like. There is a picture of his parents stuck into the frame of a polaroid of a trip with the team and he can feel his eyes fill up again, looking at his parents and his friends.

In his dreams he chases a dark haired figure on the ice. Neither of them are wearing helmets and Remus isn't really trying to catch him. He knows he could easily do so but somehow that doesn't seem to be important. A crowd chants his name eerily, Remus, Remus, Remus. The voices get louder, a bone chilling thunder _Remus, Remus, Remus._ He thinks he hates the sound of his own name then.

He wakes when he is about to catch up with the other person in front of him, his alarm ringing loudly into the quiet morning. That day he accidentally brings two bottles of water to the game. He scores a hat trick.

* * *

IV.

He can't keep himself from feeling pride rise in his chest after the scouts have left. He remembers a speech at his high school graduation, that the future was nothing to be feared but rather something to be worked towards. For the first time in his life he actually believes it. The future is as bright as the Florida sun. Remus has never been to Florida, if all goes well, however, he'll find out for himself how bright the sun there truly is sooner rather than later. Julian would love the beach. He knocks on the table, just to be safe.

“Ground control to Remus Lupin,” one of his team mates, Fenrir Greyback, clasps a hand around his shoulder. He is a bit older than Remus is, they don't share any classes but his work on the ice is impressive. He looks up, it's a bit of a sore spot, his weight and height, the blemish on his otherwise high testing scores. “Important people right?” Fenrir asks and Remus shrugs. Nothing is certain yet and rumors are just rumors after all even when they are rarely false in this. “What did they say?” _That I'll be first._ He tries to clamp down the thought. _That I'll be first, I'll be first, I'll be first._ “This and that. They're curious to see us out there. Complimented our pk, hope to see our winning streak continue, you know, the usual.”

“I heard you might be our next First Overall. Good for you,” Fenrir continues and moves forward suddenly to grab his stick leaning against the wall next to Remus. He is impressed with himself for not flinching away. “No one really knows that until it's happened, obviously it'd be a dream but you're a strong contender yourself. We'll see what happens when it's time.” He thinks he can see Greyback's eyes narrow for a heartbeat but the moment is passed so quickly he thinks he must have imagined it.

“Yeah. Let's win tonight.”

Remus almost steps onto the ice with the wrong foot. He doesn't know why muscle memory has suddenly failed him and takes a step back to do it right this time. He doesn't really need to count in his head anymore as he drags the puck across the crease but it has become second nature and he doesn't really want to risk what might happen if he stops. “Beautiful!” Josh says into their celebratory hug when he scores in the second half. Remus laughs. The future is as bright as the Florida sun.

* * *

V.

The bone deep terror, the cliff. A choice that never really existed. Blood against the red fabric. Tornadoes on the coast, the sea drawing inward after an earthquake. The shadow, now a pit. There is a point where pain makes your mind blur, he finds. And then: The Fall.

* * *

VI.

He watches the draft without telling his mother so that she won't see. The Florida Panthers are proud to select Fenrir Greyback, first overall, a sensation on the ice, unstoppable, will get what he wants. Remus grips his left arm so tightly there are bruises, sobbing hurts his shoulder but trying to stay silent hurts even more. He cries until his eyes burn and then digs his nails so tightly into the flesh of his forearm that he leaves little bloodied marks. He'll never breathe a word, he thinks and feels the tears come again. He'll be quiet until the day he dies and maybe then it will have been worth it.

His father comes to visit him the next morning and Remus can't bring himself to look at him. All of his smiles, a lifetime of happiness, has been dredged up from the deepest core of his body and spilled across the floor like wine, a crimson stain, much clearer than his blood. There is nothing left.

 _I'll make you so proud,_ he remembers thinking, _I'll make you so proud you can't breathe with happiness._ He looks outside the window at night and hates the stars for looking so brilliantly distant, so beautifully cold. _This is it,_ they say, _this is it._

* * *

VII.

He takes down the frames one by one, the articles, the pictures, the signed pucks from his shelf. A trophy, a stick, a jersey. They form a pile on his desk, the reds and golds and whites, the colors his dreams were made out of. His mother has become strangely quiet around him, as if one wrong word might set him off like a buried shell left from the world war. It probably would, Remus doesn't really want to put her theory to the test. He'll return to school in two weeks and the thought is still a bit unbearable.

He looks at over a decade worth of everything he has ever wanted and suddenly can't stand the sight of his own stupidly happy face in an article. “Your next friendly neighborhood hockey star?” the title shouts at him and he wants to tear something apart, the entire world, maybe his own body and his stupid stupid secrets and wipe the smile from his past self's face. _Stop being happy, stop looking so utterly and terribly hopeful, you naive fuck. There is nothing left, there is nothing left for you now._

The strength in his one arm could have been surprising but he doesn't care. The frames shatter on the floor, the clang of metal echoes off the now empty walls and Remus stands amidst a thousand glass splinters and a blood stained jersey, not yet washed.

“They fell,” he'll say later, cheeks dry and voice calm. His skates are tucked away in the cellar so that he won't have to look at them ever again. That year, Saint Nicholas fills his winter boots instead.

* * *

VIII.a

A picture, taken in spring. Three pairs of honeyed eyes, laughter and a proud smile. This shade of red suits him well, Remus thinks. That summer Julian and him play street hockey until the sun goes down and their mother shouts at them to come to dinner. “I'll keep that in mind,” Moody says to him when he tells him about his summer before they start working. He forgets about it until he is on the ice a year later, helping two boys lace their skates correctly, both proudly wearing miniature copies of James Potter's jersey. The sun shines brightly on his face when he leaves the rink.

* * *

VIII.b

Their eyes meet across the room and Remus smiles. It is hard not to smile at Sirius Black, especially after he has warmed up to the team a little. It's even harder not to shudder when he walks over, leans closer to be heard over the noise of the locker room and asks “Will Dumo be okay?” Remus is glad to have such a wonderful distraction from the frantic beating of his own silly heart.

There is a saying somewhere about moths and flames. Indulgence, indulgence. Remus reaches out to hand him a bag of nuts in the airport and their hands touch for less than a second. The way Sirius tilts his head to look at him fully, a word pronounced just so, a bead of laughter in the quiet night. The twist of guilt warring with the flush of pleasure as his fingers dip beneath the hem of a red jersey, tracing the line of his own neck. For a moment he forgets and imagines Sirius's grey eyes fixed on him, all splayed out like this, the wideness of his pupils, the shift of his breath.

When Sirius falls, Remus holds his eyes until the medical team has rushed him away on the stretcher.

* * *

IX.

He feels out of breath just by looking at him for too long. Sometimes all of this still seems impossible. He will wake up any moment now, he will be back in his own bed, alone and warm because he forgot to open the windows, not because Sirius has wrapped his body around him in sleep and doesn't seem to plan on letting go. Remus tilts his head up to press a soft kiss to his chin, he feels Sirius's heartbeat beneath his hands, the quickening of his breath against his forehead.

When he finally wakes fully, Remus kisses him until they are both breathless with it. The sun climbs up outside but he doesn't want to think about anything beyond these walls. Sirius moves above him as Remus's head falls back onto the pillows. He feels like he is drowning but he never wants to break the surface. There is something more in the breaths they trade the noises they spin from each other like gilded fabric. “Please,” he says and Sirius answers with the syllables of his name stretched thinly across the shift of his hips, the hitch in his breathing, _Remus, Remus._ He loves the sound of his name, prayed like this and surges up to taste it straight from Sirius's lips. Here is the crux of it all. _I'm yours, I'm yours_ played like the most stunning verse of a favorite song.

He pushes upwards into Sirius's touch and wishes.

* * *

X.

An album underneath the Christmas Tree. Golden letters on the red cover, _Merry Christmas!_ It says.

On the first page two people, facing each other, their profiles so bright with laughter, it is almost audible. There is dough on one of their faces, their hands are touching on the table. _Look,_ they seem to say, the star shaped cookies laid out between them a little bit misshapen and probably left in the oven for too long, _look at all that we will yet do._ Another one, a flower crown in dark hair and more laughter. Regulus looking up with a smile, Julian in full gear next to him. The two of them on the ice, without their helmets and faces flushed with exertion and happiness. (“You're not even really trying to catch me!” Sirius had shouted. “I don't have to.” Remus had answered.)

“Will you teach me how you got that power play goal against Boston?” Jules asks when they have unwrapped all the presents and sat down for breakfast. Lyall chuckles and Hope tries on a scolding look, “Let Sirius enjoy his Christmas break first, alright? Then you can ask him again.” Julian looks a bit disappointed but Sirius winks at him and it's forgotten. Remus kisses him while they listen to carols; American, European, and a bit of Ginette Reno because Remus's father _insisted._

“I love you,” he says and there is no shock wave, no storm, the answer is as natural for them now as the feeling that comes with it. “I love you, too.”

The final picture: Two bodies on a bed, their faces turned towards each other even in sleep, fingers barely brushing atop of the sheets. Taken by a friend and kept with permission, _I wish,_ it says underneath in Sirius's curved handwriting, _for us to fill these pages tenfold._ There is space left for all that is to come. They will fill album after album with the glow of the past, the hope of the present, the brightness of the future, Remus knows it.

Two rings on Sirius's hands and one on his own and promises they can't wait to keep. _Captain Sirius Black,_ they will say, _if anyone ever belonged in the Hall of Fame, it's him. He was so happy it hurt to look at him._ “I still won't say Poutine tastes good, though,” Remus says then and Sirius groans in mock exasperation. “I'm in love with a heathen, que Dieu me pardonne.” He throws a piece of wrapping paper at Remus. “O holy night,” a choir sings from the CD player behind them. There are all the sounds of a blessing spun into the shape of Sirius's laughter and Remus takes his hand. “How unfortunate for you.”

* * *


End file.
